Scene and Not Heard
by Kyllikki
Summary: If he notices, he never says anything. But she can feel his eyes following her. (Diverges from canon following "Aftershock")


Scene and Not Heard   
by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer: I wish. 

Summary: If he notices, he never says anything. But she can feel his eyes   
following her. 

Content warning: This is not a happy piece. That's all I'm gonna say. 

Note: Diverges from canon after "Aftershock." Additional notes at end. 

********** 

**i.**

Holy shit, where did that car come fro--   


**ii.**

Sweet Jesus, her head hurts. Fuck the light at the end of the tunnel; she can't   
see past the red and purple fireworks exploding in her head. Vaguely through   
the pain she hears Lennie's voice. _God, Claire, you all right? Claire?_ She   
grunts and tries to open her eyes, but nothing seems to be working. _I called_  
_911, Claire. The paramedics'll be here any second._ She grunts again. If only   
her head weren't exploding on her shoulders....   


**iii.**

The doctors keep reminding her how lucky she is. Eighteen stitches, a   
concussion and a broken arm. The fireworks in her head have subsided to a dull   
echo and the drugs keep her from caring. Lucky. 

They don't tell her about the condition of the other driver. She doesn't ask.   


**iv.**

He shows up the morning they release her, pleading with her to let him drive her   
home. Wearily she acquiesces, climbs into the passenger seat beside him. Too   
tired to argue, too drugged to care; no wonder people get hooked on this stuff. 

He follows her up the stairs to her apartment. Tries to get the keys from her   
to open the door, too, but she bats his hand away. He settles for clinging   
close to her heels as she enters. She makes a beeline for the bedroom, shedding   
her clothing as she goes. Still he follows her, but she can waste no energy on   
his desires or needs. Standing in the middle of her bedroom clad only in her   
underwear, she turns to face him, tells him she is going to sleep and will see   
him later. Ignoring his dumbfounded look, she crawls into bed and allows   
oblivion to overtake her. He can find his own way out.   


**v.**

She drags herself back to work three days later, hair hanging over her forehead   
to conceal the angry line of stitches. Drugs are a wonderful thing, she   
decides. Her left arm still hurts like hell every time she has to move it in   
and out of the sling, but if she just sits quietly at her desk, she is able to   
get a respectable amount of work done. 

Jack sticks his head out his office door. _Will you be staying late tonight?_

One deceptively simple question, so many layers of meaning. The efficacy of the   
drugs quickly takes a nosedive and a dull burn fires up inside her temples. She   
sighs. _I missed nearly a week of work. What do you think?_

He flinches. _I was just wondering if you wanted to order Chinese or something._

The burn quickly works its way up into a steady pounding. She lowers her head   
onto her good hand, massaging her forehead and willing fatigue into the   
background. _Fine. Whatever. Just -- nothing too hot, okay?_

_Fine._ He ducks back into his office and closes the door a little too hard to be   
accidental.   


**vi.**

_Claire, it's me. I was just calling to see if you, you know, needed anything._  
_... Um, call me if you want, but you don't have to. Bye._

Lennie's voice sounds tinny on the answering machine. Flat. 

She laughs hollowly, hearing the echo in her empty apartment. It figures.   


**vii.**

It's become more difficult finding excuses to avoid him at work. She's   
resourceful, though, and quickly becomes an adept player of this new game.   
Eating lunch in obscure restaurants, writing in the law library instead of at   
her desk, ducking out of the office at five on the nose rather than sticking   
around to quibble over where they're going for dinner and who's paying -- she's   
surprised by how easily she takes to her new routine. How little she depends on   
his presence to anchor her life. 

If he notices, he never says anything. She can feel his eyes following her,   
though, and she wonders when his gaze became so stifling.   


**viii.**

She takes the morning off for a follow-up with her doctor. The cast will be off   
soon. Lucky, he reminds her. She repeats it to herself, rolling the word   
around on her tongue, tasting it. Lucky.   


**ix.**

Her luck runs out that evening. Five o'clock comes and goes and still she sits   
at her desk, trying to recoup the lost morning of work. She hears his office   
door opening and listens to him cross the hall and remove her jacket from the   
hook. Braces herself. 

He thrusts the jacket in her face. _Let's go._

_I don't have time for this,_ she growls, eyes never leaving her desk. 

_Let's go, Claire._ Insistent. 

Prepared to dig in her heels, she glares up at him. Shit, he looks determined.   
A dog with a bone, ready to secret her away or dig her out at his whim. 

_I'm not going to drop this. Either you come with me and eat or you go home._  
_Those are your options._ He looks appropriately pleased with himself and his   
ultimatum. 

A sickening weight pushes down on her stomach. She looks back at the brief,   
unable to meet his eyes again. _ I told you, I've got work to do._

Leaning down, his hand gently covers hers, removing the pen from its grip. He   
manages to turn a simple act into foreplay, grazing his long fingers down the   
inside of her arm. Her insides twist, but not from desire. How long has it   
been since his presence stopped affecting her? A month? Two? 

She can't remember anymore. 

_Please, Claire,_ he breathes into her ear. _Let's get out of here for a little_  
_while, huh? We need to talk about this._ She recognizes his most seductive tone   
of voice, the one he uses when he really wants something. 

Just as gently, she rescues her pen from his hand. She drops her voice to a   
similarly seductive level and whispers back. _I appreciate the offer, Jack._  
_Really. But I need to catch up on this pile of stuff or we'll never get to have_  
_dinner together again because I'll still be buried in paperwork. So..._ She   
graces him with a sweet smile and bats her eyelashes, a Harlequin-esque ploy to   
which he is startlingly susceptible. It still surprises her, this ability to   
manipulate him so easily. 

He glowers back at her, moved but not entirely convinced. _Claire--_

She cuts him off. _Look, I promise we'll talk._ She strokes his arm, fingertips   
gliding across the smooth cotton in a twisted imitation of his earlier caress.   
_But later, okay? Believe me, I'll be a much happier person once I get caught_  
_up._

She sees the fire in his eyes die. Victory. 

_Okay, have it your way. But I'm holding you to that promise._

She watches him go as he retreats across the hall.   


**x.**

The same day her cast comes off, she runs into Ben Stone at a party hosted by a   
mutual acquaintance. Not surprising, really, given the sheer number of   
attorneys present. Still, she is oddly content to sit in a quiet corner and sip   
coffee with him. No expectations, no assumptions. He's working for a nonprofit   
organization. Environmental law, wonderful coworkers, great job satisfaction.   
Maybe she should give it some thought, he says. 

He smiles now, she realizes. 

He gives her his card, tells her to call if she's ever interested in getting   
out. He doesn't elaborate; he doesn't need to. 

She thanks him, returns the smile. So easy. She carefully tucks the card in   
her pocket.   


**xi.**

Saturday night, Jack shows up on her doorstep with a bottle of wine. Unable to   
think of a good excuse, she lets him in, allows him to fill her apartment with   
the force of his presence. They sit on the couch and talk of nothing, working   
their way first through his bottle, then one of hers. For once he's not pushing   
her, pulling her, molding her; instead, he turns on the charm, tells a joke,   
makes her laugh. An honest-to-goodness belly laugh. Idly she wonders how long   
it has been, but gives up when she realizes she can't recall. She begins to   
understand again why she once desired this man. Understanding flows into   
relaxation as she allows the wine to slide over her senses and soothe her. 

Conversation lulls and they remain reclined, steeping in each other's presence.   
Easy, for once. But then he leans over to kiss her, slips his tongue into her   
mouth and waggles it around like an errant schoolboy. He tastes of shiraz and   
his hands tremble when they slide underneath her shirt to clumsily grope her   
breasts. _Let me make love to you, Claire._ He begins kissing his way down her   
neck. _Please._

Unable to nod the assent she knows he expects, yet unwilling to summon the   
energy required for a refusal and the subsequent argument, she remains still.   
She trusts he will take silence as acquiescence; he does not disappoint her. He   
renews his assault on her breasts, pawing them while fumbling with her bra   
clasp. A distant part of her mind is amused that this man has been on earth for   
over half a century and still struggles with a task girls master by their   
mid-teens. 

When he finally succeeds, he looks up at her, grins. _God, Claire, I can't_  
_believe I almost lost you._

Lucky, she reminds herself, repeating it like a mantra. One last time, she   
allows him this indulgence. She refuses to consider the weight of morning. 

_-finis_-   


  
Many thanks to jael for encouragement, incisive beta ("I can't read that. It   
came through in boxes.") and conquerors under the influence of controlled   
substances. g 

Thanks also to cirocco, for encouraging me to post this here. :)

Feedback is treasured at kyllikki8@hotmail.com  



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